


Don't Care Where This Road Goes

by clotpolesonly



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Road Trip, Braeden & Derek Hale Friendship, Future Fic, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Light Angst, Lydia Martin & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, M/M, Minor Lydia Martin/Scott McCall, Minor Vernon Boyd/Erica Reyes, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Road Trips, Sharing a Bed, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:08:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28073724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clotpolesonly/pseuds/clotpolesonly
Summary: This was a terrible idea, and it had only been a few hours so far. Derek should text Boyd now and apologize that he wouldn’t make it to the wedding; chances were, he would be dead by then, because he let himself get talked into spending five days in a car with the guy he’d been trying to convince himself he wasn’t in love with for the last two years. He should text Braeden too, she would get a nice laugh out of it.—In which the country is traversed, dumb road trip games are played, beds are shared, incorrect assumptions are made, and two idiots finally figure themselves (and each other) out. Also, there are baby sloths.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 57
Kudos: 512
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2019





	Don't Care Where This Road Goes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kalika_999](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalika_999/gifts).



> okay so, this fic took a truly shamefully long time to finish. literally, it's been common practice all year long for my friends to just randomly yell at me to get my shit together and finish this fic to the point where "road trip" has become synonymous with "sure jan" adlkfjgh. but hey, it's here now! only 13 months late!!

Derek dumped his duffel bag in the trunk of the rental car, slammed it closed, and ignored the smirk on Braeden’s face. It had been a constant presence for the last two days, ever since Stiles had called, and so had the smugness in it that said she was enjoying his internal crisis.

“I don’t know how I let myself get talked into this,” Derek muttered.

“You’re a sucker,” Braeden told him. “That’s how.”

Derek huffed, but he couldn’t exactly tell her she was wrong. If he _wasn’t_ a sucker, he wouldn’t be here, in the parking lot of a shitty DC apartment complex, stowing his things in Stiles’ rental car, preparing to go on a road trip across the country with him. If he had any sense of self-preservation whatsoever, he would’ve said he’d already bought a non-refundable plane ticket back to California and Stiles would just have to drive back to Beacon Hills on his own. That would have been the smart thing to do.

But Stiles had sounded so _excited._

“A road trip, Derek!” he’d said, practically exploding with energy. “Haven’t you ever wanted to take a real road trip? ‘Cause I definitely have! Come on, man, this is like bucket list kind of shit here! When am I ever gonna get this opportunity again?”

And Derek had caved like a house of cards. Go figure.

Braeden was still smirking, leaned back against the car with arms and ankles crossed, her sunglasses not doing anything to hide that her eyes were on him. _Judging_ him. Derek rolled his own and tried to convince himself that it was just the sun making his face so warm.

“What are you even still doing here?” he asked. “The job is over, and I know you have another one lined up that you don’t need me for.”

Braeden shrugged. “I don’t have to be in Alabama for another three days. And it’s worth the delay to watch you squirm.”

“You’re evil,” Derek said. “I don’t know why I ever dated you.”

She laughed easily and pulled off her sunglasses to bat her eyelashes at him. “Because you’re weak for a pair of pretty brown eyes,” she said. “You have a type.”

The pretty brown eyes in question flicked over Derek’s shoulder. He turned to see Stiles fighting his way down the stairs from his second floor apartment, his luggage too wide to fit in the narrow space. Why he needed three suitcases for this trip, Derek couldn’t guess, but one of them went over the railing with a string of very colorful curse words.

“You gonna make it?” Braeden called out to him, despite making no move to help, and Stiles managed to free one hand from the tangle to wave her off. Braeden turned back to Derek, shaking her head. “You really know how to pick ‘em, babe.”

Derek watched as Stiles finally made it to ground level, immediately dropping everything so he could raise his arms in the air like a gymnast dismounting the beam, and questioned every life choice he had ever made to bring him to this place.

“Yeah,” he said helplessly. “Yeah, I do.”

* * *

Boyd and Erica’s wedding was a long time coming, but after four years, three epic—but thankfully temporary—breakups, and one metaphorical slap on the back of the head from their friends, it was finally happening. Erica had been tweeting about #BericaBliss for the last eight months, spamming her followers with every step of their wedding planning adventure, and generally driving everybody up the wall.

Really, it was a miracle Boyd hadn’t cut and run after the fourth argument about flower arrangements. The man had the patience of a saint. That, or he really loved his bride-to-be, and that made all the fuss worth it.

Either way, the date was set and quickly approaching. The countdown had begun and every friend and pack member was making their way back to town for the occasion. College had left them all pretty scattered—Scott near Sacramento at UC Davis, Lydia up in Massachusetts for MIT, Kira back in New York at Syracuse, Stiles on the east coast for his pre-FBI program—but none of them were going to miss this.

Derek, at least, still technically lived in Beacon Hills. He just didn’t spend a whole lot of time there. With so much of his pack out of town, and with how much the region had calmed down in recent years, it was frankly a little boring. Riding along with Braeden both helped her get her jobs done faster and safer and kept Derek on his toes. Their failed romantic history notwithstanding, it was a win-win.

Besides, their breakup had been the most amicable Derek had ever had. Not that that was a high bar, considering his history, but it meant that they still got along. They were a hell of a team.

He had almost invited Braeden to go to the wedding with him, not as a date but as a friend. She wasn’t pack, but she was close. After all the help she’d given them over the years, and all the battles they’d fought together, Boyd and Erica would’ve liked to have her there. But there was always another job, and Braeden wasn’t one for flowers and champagne toasts. Or marriage in general. It was part of why she and Derek hadn’t worked out in the end, despite how good they’d been together.

That and, of course, the other thing.

Stiles bobbed his head to the radio, mouthing the words to some obscure 80's song that Derek had never heard before as he pulled out onto the freeway, and Derek asked himself again why he was doing this. Weak for brown eyes, Braeden had said, but Derek was long past denying to himself what it really was.

He was just weak for Stiles.

“Okay, so here’s the game plan,” Stiles said decisively once cruising speed had been achieved. “We drive in four hour shifts, give or take. Depending on the frequency of rest stops, of course, which are very important because I’ve got like five liters of soda in the back and am guaranteed to drink it all myself, since you and your washboard abs don’t do that whole sugar thing.”

He flung a hand out in the direction of Derek’s torso, eyes leaving the road for an ill-advised few seconds to follow the motion. Derek nearly protested, but Stiles was right: he _didn’t_ like sugary drinks. He hadn’t thought that Stiles knew that about him. He didn’t have long to wonder when Stiles had figured it out, though. A moment later, Stiles’ eyes were back on the tarmac.

“Shotgun picks the music,” he went on. “Within reason.” He gave Derek a very significant, cautioning sidelong look. “But the driver picks the next food place. Any sightseeing ventures will be a joint decision, and yes, there will be sightseeing because no road trip is complete without the world’s largest ball of twine. Got it?”

“World’s largest ball of twine?” Derek repeated. “Are you serious?”

“You’re damn right I am. That one’s non-negotiable.”

“Do you actually care about the twine, or are you just hoping to hit every stereotypical road trip mile marker you’ve ever seen on TV?”

Stiles snorted, head swiveling in a weak attempt at denial, but it didn’t last long. His cheeks were faintly pink when he glanced at Derek again.

“Okay, so maybe I am,” he said. “It’s just such a _thing,_ you know? A thing I’ve always wanted to do at some point in my life. The great road trip experience! I may or may not have been dreaming of doing something like this since I was, like, eleven. Admittedly, I was originally planning to do it with Scott, as a sort of last hurrah before college, but obviously that fell through, what with all the supernatural mayhem.”

Derek knew that. Of course he knew that; Scott had been Stiles’ best friend forever and a day, so it only made sense that all the plans Stiles had were supposed to be with him. That didn’t stop Derek from feeling a little stung at the thought of being his second choice. If he was even that. Mostly, he was just the most convenient, the one who happened to be in the area. Better than driving alone.

Either Derek was quiet for too long or Stiles finally registered his own words and how they sounded, because he flung out a hand again. It nearly hit Derek in the face.

“Not that I mind doing it with you!” he cried. “Yeah, so I thought it would be me and Scott’s thing, but you’re awesome too, and I’m totally not complaining in any kind of way. This is gonna be great, dude, you and me.”

Derek’s jaw unclenched, a bit of the sting easing. He fought to keep a smile off his face, though, as he said, “What have I told you about calling me dude?”

Stiles grinned widely, unrepentant. “Something that I do and will always ignore.”

The full force of that grin made Derek’s stomach flip over in a way that FaceTime and Skype usually spared him. Rather than fight through the fluttery feeling to find something else quippy to say, Derek reached for the radio dial.

Eyes back on the road, Stiles said, “Nothing obnoxious. No Top 40 either, that stuff is all crap. And no—”

“Shotgun picks the music, Stiles,” Derek told him, running through the channels. “That’s your rule.”

_“Within reason!”_

Derek landed on something pop-ish and bubblegum. Stiles groaned, and the smile finally won out.

* * *

Driving long distances with Stiles was exactly like Derek had expected it to be. Stiles rocked out to whatever song was playing, including the ones he claimed to hate. He played wild drum solos against the steering wheel and sang along to the guitar solos with gusto. He chugged three Sprites in an hour and made Derek crawl halfway into the backseat to find the bag of snacks he’d thrown back there, which turned out to be a truly obscene amount of beef jerky and three packages of Little Debbie cake rolls.

When Derek finally took over the wheel—after visiting a rest stop, because _three Sprites in an hour_ —it was almost a relief, if only because Derek had a reason to keep his eyes off of Stiles. Now, Derek could focus on the road instead of the sinewy grace of Stiles’ hands as they mimed a drum beat, or the motion of his throat as he swallowed, or the way he licked chocolate and cream off his lips.

This was a terrible idea, and it had only been a few hours so far. Derek should text Boyd now and apologize that he wouldn’t make it to the wedding; chances were, he would be dead by then, because he let himself get talked into spending five days in a car with the guy he’d been trying to convince himself he wasn’t in love with for the last two years. He should text Braeden too, she would get a nice laugh out of it.

He made it until dinner, at least. Stiles ribbed him about the local diner he chose, all cracked vinyl booths and dusty letterboard menus with puns in the names, instead of any of the franchise places they passed, but Derek was vindicated when the service was great and the food delicious. Off-beat food joints, he argued, were another part of the “quintessential road trip experience”—air quotes included—and if Stiles was going to insist on dragging him through stupid tourist traps, then he could put up with quirky diners.

Stiles conceded the point by offering Derek the last of his curly fries. It was probably because he’d filled up on jerky in the car, and wasn't as big of a gesture as it felt like—everyone knew how possessive Stiles was of his precious curly fries—but it was more than enough to bring the fluttery feeling back to Derek's stomach.

Derek texted Braeden. She _did_ laugh, and Derek couldn’t even blame her for it. He was fucked.

* * *

Riding in a car was more exhausting than it had any reason to be. He had done a lot of running and fighting and exerting himself in his life, and yet, after fourteen hours on the road, Derek was just as ready to faceplant into bed as he had ever been after a battle.

Stiles wasn’t much better, which made a bit more sense. He, at least, was constantly in motion, always drumming or fidgeting or dancing. Now, as they followed the GPS’s instructions to the first of several one-step-above-sketchy motels on Stiles’ pre-planned route—he’d refused to let Derek pay for something more upscale; he’d argued again that it was because of the _road trip experience,_ but Derek was almost certain he was just a broke college student and too proud to admit it—he was fighting to keep his eyes open. He yawned, smacked his lips, and pulled into what appeared to be the only empty space in the lot.

“Busy night for them,” Derek observed. “Good thing you called ahead.”

Stiles hummed an absentminded response, occupied with trying not to fall asleep as he popped the trunk and dragged one of his suitcases out of it. Derek followed suit with his much more reasonably-sized duffel bag, and the two of them trooped into the painfully well-lit lobby. Derek fought down a yawn of his own as Stiles passed his ID over to the concierge at the counter. He was considering closing his eyes and going to sleep right where he stood when a familiar indignant sputtering noise demanded his attention again.

“What do you mean, _there’s no reservation?_ ”

The concierge raised his eyebrows at Stiles. He dragged his eyes down his computer screen and back up again, not looking at all apologetic. “I mean, we don’t have any reservation under this name. I would remember a name like that.”

Derek did close his eyes, this time in the hopes that he was already sleeping and would open them again to find himself awake in an alternate timeline where the concierge had not just said those words.

“Stiles,” he said, “ _please_ tell me you did not forget to call ahead.”

“No, I didn’t!” Stiles insisted, hands flying. They landed on his head, long fingers tangling in the mess that was his hair. “I swear, I did the thing, ‘cause I was talking to Lydia about _her_ travel plans and what route I was taking, and if you were gonna come along and would I need to book a single or a double, and then she said that thing about y—” He cut himself off, deflating all at once. “Okay, yeah, I think I forgot.”

_“Stiles.”_

“Please tell me you have vacancies,” Stiles said to the concierge. “Please, please, please, I am so tired, please.”

The concierge, lips pursed, clicked around for an excruciatingly long minute. Finally, he said, “We have _a_ vacancy.”

“We’ll take it,” Derek declared.

Eyebrow raising again, the concierge added, “It’s a single.”

“Dude, who cares?” Stiles said. “We’ve been driving for _literally_ ever, we’ll take anything.”

Mollified, the concierge took Stiles’ card and rang them up, then handed them a plastic keycard with an equally plastic smile. Derek silently willed him to get his tie stuck in a door sometime soon and led the way out of the lobby.

The room was exactly like all the other motel rooms Derek had ever stayed in, including the lone bed in the center of the room. Stiles threw himself down on it without further ado, face buried in a pillow in a way that might suffocate him, though he didn’t seem very concerned about that.

Derek dumped his bag on the floor with a sigh. Snatching up one of the unclaimed pillows, he tossed it down as well. With Stiles occupied, Derek availed himself of the bathroom; tired as he was, he wasn’t quite tired enough to forgo a shower. By the time he emerged, Stiles had at least changed clothes, apparently— _somehow_ —without moving a muscle, because he was in the exact same position.

Shaking his head, Derek flipped off the light and joined his bag and pillow on the floor. It was far from the worst floor he had ever slept on, despite the carpet being scratchy and synthetic and a little bit smelly. He was worn out enough not to care about being blanket-less, even. It wasn’t cold, and his sleep shirt was long-sleeved; he’d be fine for one night.

Before he could let himself pass out, a rustle of blankets from above told him that Stiles had finally come up for air.

“Dude, what are you doing?”

Derek rolled his eyes in the direction of the ceiling. “Sleeping.”

“No, I mean what are you doing down _there?_ ”

“Sleeping,” Derek said again; it wasn’t a hard concept to grasp.

Stiles’ face appeared over the edge of the bed, pillow creases already imprinted on his cheeks and a frown on his lips.

“You are _not_ sleeping on this grody-ass floor just because _I_ fucked up the reservation thing,” he declared. “Get up here.”

Derek’s exhausted brain took a second to process that logistically, and then a few more to process it emotionally. Even once he’d fully understood, he still heard himself say, “Up where?”

“Up _here,_ dumbass.” Stiles patted the edge of the bed exaggeratedly. When Derek still didn’t move, Stiles hoisted himself into a more upright position and made a face at him. “What, do you _want_ to sleep down there? Is it super awesome and we’ve all been missing out on the pleasure of floor-sleeping this whole time?”

“No,” Derek said haltingly, “I just—”

“Do I smell bad or something?”

“No!”

“So you _don’t_ wanna get all up on this?” Stiles waved a hand over his person, eyebrows waggling suggestively.

It was a little ridiculous, and Derek tried to laugh. What came out of his mouth, though, was more of a strangled noise. Stiles snatched his hand away like his own chest had burned him.

“Joking!” he yelped. “Just joking! Dude, don’t worry, okay, I know you don’t— That’s fine! It’s, you know, it’s _fine,_ I just meant—”

Stiles stammered to a stop and sighed, fingers dragging through his hair.

“Come on, man,” he said, less joking and more reasonable. “It doesn’t have to be weird, or anything. We are mature adults who can handle sharing a bed for one night. I’ve shared with Scott a million times.”

Derek was, in fact, _not_ sure that he could handle that, for a variety of reasons that had nothing to do with childishness and everything to do with his stupid unrequited feelings. But those reasons were not something he wanted to admit to anyone except Braeden, and maybe Boyd, and certainly not Stiles. Instead, he gave Stiles the driest look he could manage with a pounding heart and an uncomfortable lump in his throat—not that Stiles could see his face clearly in the dark anyway—and said, “Mature adult? _You?_ ”

Another pillow found its way from the bed to the floor, this time by way of Derek’s face. Stiles was laughing, though, and Derek was _weak._

The bed’s comforter was every bit as plasticky and synthetic as the carpet fibers, but it smelled better. At least it was a queen sized bed, and not a twin, big enough to fit them both with some room to spare. Derek took a deep breath before he sank down into the sheets, already warm with the heat of Stiles’ body, trying to position himself so that he was neither conspicuously avoiding Stiles nor quite close enough for the two of them to touch.

He wasn’t close enough, _period,_ according to the ache in his chest.

“Sorry in advance if I hog the blankets,” Stiles said around a huge yawn, tugging the blanket in question one way and then the other, trying to settle it more comfortably over them both. “Or kick you. Scott says I kick in my sleep sometimes. Showed me bruises after a sleepover once when we were kids.”

“I think I’ll survive.”

Stiles mumbled something else, but his heartbeat was already slowing. He was asleep, blankets decidedly askew, before Derek could respond. Good thing; he couldn’t think of anything to say that wasn’t about how often he had thought of this before. Being in bed with Stiles. Sleeping beside him. Waking up with him.

Of course, those domestic fantasies had been in a bit of a different context in his head, one of Stiles in bed with him by choice and not just by circumstance.

Derek rolled over, putting his back to the wall of heat that was Stiles, temptingly soft and pliable. The bland wallpaper wasn’t nearly as enticing, but he counted the whorls in the pattern until he couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer. He fell asleep with Stiles’ heartbeat in his ears.

* * *

Stiles must have set an alarm while Derek was in the bathroom, because it was barely mid-morning when his phone started _beeping incessantly_ on the bedside table.

Groaning, Derek buried his face in the warmth under his cheek, hoping if he burrowed deep enough he could evade the awful noise and go back to the peaceful slumber he had been enjoying. His stubble caught on soft cotton and, unfortunately, the noise continued to attack his eardrums.

The soft warmth vibrated with what Derek’s half-asleep brain sluggishly recognized as another groan—someone else’s groan.

 _Stiles’_ groan.

Because what Derek was nuzzling into was Stiles’ chest.

He didn’t have time to panic over this realization before a hand was on the back of his head, holding him in place. Stiles made another one of those low rumbles, halfway to a whine this time, that resounded in Derek’s ear like the purr of an engine. Stiles flailed his other hand around on the table until he found the offending phone and shut the damn thing off, all without truly waking up. If he was awake, he would not be turning over and pulling Derek closer. He wouldn’t be carding long fingers through Derek’s hair or rubbing his cold nose against Derek’s temple, warm breath against Derek’s ear.

Derek should move. He knew he should move. But moving would mean waking Stiles and opening them both up to the world of embarrassment that would come with acknowledging the position they’d found themselves in. It would also mean not being _in_ the position Derek had found himself in anymore, and the weak part of him couldn’t let go of it just yet.

In the end, the decision was made for them when Stiles’ phone started ringing.

Stiles’ ringtone was twice as loud as his alarm—or, more likely, Stiles had no idea how loud his ringtone was because his phone had been on vibrate almost exclusively since he first got it, alarm usage being the only exception—and it jolted Stiles out of his doze like a gunshot.

There was a brief moment where their eyes met. Stiles’ were wide and startled, still hazy with sleep, warm and golden in the sunlight streaming in through the gap in the curtains. His hand was splayed out on Derek’s back, hot through the thin fabric of his shirt, and the fingers tangled in Derek’s hair hadn’t budged.

For a split-second, Derek didn’t know what would happen, if Stiles would push him away, or laugh it off like it was nothing more than a hilarious accident between friends, or—unlikely as it was—melt into a smile and pull him even closer, maybe press a chaste kiss to Derek’s lips despite their morning breath and—

A second ear-splitting trill had Stiles flinging himself backwards. Derek almost took an elbow to the nose before Stiles finally got a hold of the phone, but that was okay. It was _good,_ really. It shook the fantasy from his head before he gave into the urge to follow through on it. He didn’t want to imagine Stiles’ reaction if he did. Their compromising position was already bad enough, and if a wayward limb to the face was the price he had to pay to avoid Stiles commenting on it, then he would gladly take it.

“It’s Lydia,” Stiles said, holding the phone up so Derek could see the profile picture on the screen. “I should, uh…answer this. Now, probably, before she—”

Derek didn’t wait to hear what Lydia would do if Stiles ignored her call; he’d known Lydia and her temper long enough to fill in the blanks himself. He slipped off the bed and fled to the bathroom.

Slumped against the locked door, Derek took a deep breath. It didn’t calm him like he hoped it would, though, because all he could smell was _Stiles._ His scent was all over Derek, sunk into his clothes and smeared across his skin, warm and spicy and heavy with sleep. It smelled so fucking good. Derek had to resist the urge to sniff himself because that urge was _pathetic_ and he would not allow himself to sink that low. He could practically hear Braeden laughing.

Even worse was the realization that, if Derek smelled this much like Stiles, then _Stiles_ had to smell like _him_ too.

The idea of showering off that scent made something in Derek’s chest whine in protest, but he knew he had to. As much as he wanted to smell like Stiles always—for them to smell like each other every day, like they’d been wrapped up in each other’s arms all night—it wasn’t _real._ They were just two friends who had happened to share a bed for logistical reasons. Pretending, even to himself, that it was anything else would be even more pathetic than the sniffing, and it would only hurt him in the long run. He didn’t need to imagine Braeden’s sad, pitying look to know that.

He emerged from the shower smelling like no one but himself, for better or for worse, only to remember that, in his frantic rush to the bathroom, he hadn’t brought a change of clothes in with him. The hotel’s cheap white towels were just barely wide enough to wrap around his hips, but it wasn’t like modesty was or had ever been Derek’s number one concern.

Stiles was seated on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, frowning down at the phone in his hand even though the call had ended. He looked up when Derek entered the room, towel slung low on his hips and hair still dripping. The phone slipped from Stiles’ suddenly slack fingers and hit the floor with a thump. Derek paused in his search for his duffel bag to raise an eyebrow at him.

Stiles opened his mouth and then closed it again. Then, ducking down to snatch his phone up, he said in the general direction of the carpet, “God, you’re worse than Malia.”

Derek didn’t dignify that with a response, just reached into his bag to pull out a pair of jeans and hold them up for Stiles to see. Stiles made a face at him. His phone was still in his hand. Derek nodded to it.

“What did Lydia want?”

Stiles looked down like he’d forgotten the device entirely. “Oh, uh…” He scratched at his chin, cheeks reddening in a way that Derek hadn’t seen prompted by Lydia Martin in a long time. “Just logistics stuff, you know, travel plans and whatnot. What time we were gonna get into town, if I’m gonna stay with my dad or in a hotel, that kind of thing. Nothing else.”

His delivery wasn’t exactly convincing, not with the blush and the fidgeting and the rabbiting heartbeat. But what Stiles and Lydia talked about wasn’t really any of Derek’s business, especially if Stiles didn’t want to share it with him. Derek swallowed down his questions with a nod and plucked pointedly at the edge of his towel.

It took a second, but Stiles got the message. Blush darkening, he leapt off the bed, mumbling something about privacy.

The room was not particularly spacious, as was the case with most cheap motel rooms, and it meant that Stiles had to squeeze past Derek to take his turn in the bathroom. To be fair, Derek probably could have moved further out of the way, but as soon as Stiles stepped into his space, he was hit with a whiff of himself on Stiles’ skin, and putting distance between them became unimaginable. It was all he could do not to lean in closer, to bury his face in Stiles’ neck and breathe in their combined scents, to drag him back to bed and make sure Stiles smelled like him forever.

He didn’t do it. Derek kept the impulse in check for the whole second and a half it took for Stiles to pass between him and the bed and disappear into the bathroom, which was a feat of will that Derek quietly congratulated himself on. It was a good thing, he told himself, that Stiles’ shower would wipe the slate clean. He wasn’t sure how long he would’ve been able to resist otherwise.

* * *

They hit the road just after ten, having _barely_ snuck under the wire of their checkout time. Another minute and the cranky morning concierge would have insisted on them paying for a full second night. A quick swing through the nearest McDonald’s and they were on their way.

Derek took the first shift at the wheel this time, ostensibly because Stiles had been the last to drive the previous night but realistically because Stiles had declared himself not fully awake until after his morning coffee. It also left Stiles free to text, which he did copiously in between his requisite radio-singing and air-drumming. Derek didn’t ask who he was texting, but he caught at least one glimpse of Lydia’s name on the screen.

The first departure from the previous day’s routine came when Stiles suddenly slapped Derek in the shoulder, pointed wildly to the right, and said, “Ooh, ooh, turn off here! Take this exit right here!”

Derek obligingly strong-armed his way across three lanes of busy interstate traffic to take the next off ramp, which did not earn him any friends. He was about to ask Stiles if he already had to pee that badly when he caught sight of a billboard advertising a zoo with an exhibit of pettable sloths.

“Stiles,” Derek said as the sign flew past. “Are we going where I think we’re going?”

“If you think we’re gonna pet those sloths, you bet we are.”

“Seriously? _This_ is your first sightseeing choice?”

A phone screen appeared in Derek’s line of vision, almost but not quite blocking his view of the road. On it was a picture of a very small sloth, hanging upside down from a man’s arm and looking dolefully at the camera.

“Look at the baby sloth, Derek,” Stiles said gravely. “Look at it! There are no sloths in Beacon Hills, dude. Or Virginia, or practically anywhere else. But there are sloths _right here_ for the petting. Tell me you don’t wanna pet that.”

Derek looked at the sloth in question for as long as he could before driving demanded his full attention. By the time he had looked his fill, he could honestly say that he didn’t much care either way about the sloth. Stiles, on the other hand, was looking at him with wide, entreating brown eyes. He glanced at the sloth again; its eyes were the same damn color.

Well, it wasn’t like he had anything better to do.

“Fine,” he said shortly, “we can pet sloths.”

Stiles pumped his fist into the air. Or, he _tried_ to. What he actually did was punch the roof of the car, but it did nothing to dampen his enthusiasm. Derek just shook his head, trying to keep the smile off of his face as he followed the street signs pointing him in the direction of the zoo.

Unsurprisingly, the place wasn’t particularly crowded on a Tuesday morning. It was mostly soccer moms in yoga pants with their passels of screaming children and well-worn zoo membership cards. Absent any significant line for non-member tickets, Derek only had to put up with Stiles bouncing on his toes for a few minutes. Stiles insisted on paying for both of them, since he was the one who’d suggested it—which Derek told himself very firmly was not in any way date-like, no matter how much he wished it was—and led the way to the enclosure at a pace that was just short of a run.

Derek had to admit, the sloths _were_ cute. There were six of them, two adults and four juveniles, all hanging around on a bamboo jungle gym. The zoo attendant was all smiles as she greeted them, a plethora of sloth facts at the ready, and she was quick to scoop up the nearest juvenile and pass it off to Stiles.

The look on Stiles’ face when the baby sloth meeped at him was worth the price of admission all on its own.

“Derek,” he said eagerly. “Derek, did you hear that? What even _was_ that noise? Oh my god, that was so cute. Do it again, little dude!”

The sloth hung off of Stiles like he was another bamboo shoot, four sets of long claws hooked over his arm until it liberated one limb to stretch out in Derek’s direction. It turned its upside down face toward him and made the noise again.

“Oh,” the attendant said, chipper. “Looks like she wants you!”

Derek didn’t have time to protest before Stiles was pressing in close. The proximity caught him off guard, his nose suddenly full of the warm spice of a happy Stiles, and the sloth found its way onto his shoulder seemingly between one second and the next.

It was a heavy, fuzzy lump. One weirdly long arm waved in front of his face while the other landed on the top of his head. It meeped in his ear.

Derek was not at all surprised to look up and find Stiles’ phone pointed at him. “No,” he said anyway. “No, Stiles, you are not taking pictures of this!”

“Of _course_ I am taking pictures of this,” Stiles said, unrepentant. “Do you have any idea how precious this is? Smile for the camera, Derek, it’s time for your closeup.”

Derek scowled his deepest and most intimidating scowl, the one that had reduced several people to tears over the course of his life. The attendant’s cheery smile faltered, her eyes darting off to the side like she was suddenly considering calling security to protect her vulnerable animal charges from the hostile party, but Stiles only laughed and snapped a few more pictures.

* * *

“Was that not worth it?” Stiles asked as they collapsed back into the car. “‘Cause I think it was, if only for that one that stuck its hand in your mouth. _Totally_ worth it.”

Derek could still taste dirt. “Personally, I was much more entertained by the one who decided your hair was food.”

The little guy had crawled his way onto Stiles’ head, gotten a big mouthful, and started chewing. Stiles had made Derek take a picture before he let the attendant rescue him. A patch of his hair was still damp and tangled. But underneath the musty animal smell, Stiles’ scent had a zing to it that spoke of delight.

Just for that, Derek was almost sad to put the zoo in the rearview mirror. Stiles turned all the way around in his seat to give the distant sloths a mournful farewell, but he had mostly finished lamenting by the time Derek pulled into a tiny checker-patterned diner half an hour later.

“Okay,” he said, reenergized, plopping down in a vinyl booth and snatching up a colorful paper menu. “So I promised Erica that we would stop at some awful little souvenir shop and get her the most obnoxious, kitschy trinket we could possibly find.”

“She’ll appreciate that. Boyd, not so much.”

Stiles waved him off. “We can get Boyd a t-shirt or something. He likes t-shirts.”

As he perused his own menu, Derek resolved to get Boyd one of those decorative notebooks that seemed to be in every gift shop everywhere. He liked t-shirts, sure, but he would like something nice to write in a lot more. He went through notebooks faster than Erica went through shoes.

“Glitter,” Stiles was saying. “Lots and lots of glitter, that’s what it needs. Snowglobe? No, snowglobes are way too classy.”

“Not if they have flamingos in them,” Derek muttered.

“You make a good point, but since we’re nowhere near Florida, there probably aren’t gonna be any flamingo snowglobes around these parts.” He sighed. “More’s the pity.”

A waitress with a grease-stained apron and a very high ponytail swung by their booth, pad and pen at the ready. “What can I get for you gentlemen today?”

“I’ll have an everything burger with extra curly fries and a malt shake,” Stiles said at once. “And the big guy will be getting whatever he thinks will make his beard grow faster.”

Derek made a face at him. “You’re just jealous because you’ve got the beard-growing capabilities of a twelve year old.” To the waitress, “Ignore him. He’s an idiot. I’ll have a philly cheesesteak with onion rings and a coke, thanks.”

“Oh, you two are just so cute,” the waitress said, scribbling their orders down. “I wish _my_ boyfriend would take me out on dates like this.”

Derek almost dropped his menu. Stiles _did_ drop his, knocking over the pepper shaker in the process. A few half-formed words made their way out of his mouth—all of them denials—and Derek’s appetite evaporated.

“No,” he said to the startled waitress. “No, we’re not— We’re just friends.”

Stiles paused in his haphazard attempts to wipe up the spray of pepper, cheeks obviously red even with his head ducked to hide it. “Yeah, no, just, uh…friends.”

The way he hesitated brought a flush to Derek’s face too. It was one thing for Stiles to be uncomfortable with being mistaken for Derek’s boyfriend, Derek could at least understand that. But he’d thought they had been having a good time together so far. Didn’t that at least qualify them as _friends?_ Hadn’t he earned that much, after everything?

“Oh,” the waitress said, eyes widening in horror. “Oh, I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed. You just looked so—”

“It’s fine,” Derek cut across her.

She took her leave without putting her foot in her mouth again, scurrying off toward the kitchen posthaste to leave a painfully awkward silence in her wake. For once in his life, Stiles didn’t seem to have anything to say to fill it.

The buzzing of Derek’s phone broke the standoff: a text from Scott remarking on what a lovely sloth perch he made and would he be bringing his new sloth friend with him to the wedding? It got a very reluctant laugh out of Derek and, just like that, the ice cracked.

Stiles brought up a picture of some tacky attraction on his phone, Derek scoffed and vetoed it, and when their food came, Stiles offered Derek a few of his curly fries.

* * *

The afternoon went by uneventfully. Stiles drove, bitching the entire time about Derek’s music choices but unable to do anything about it when it was his own rule that gave Derek dominion over it. Derek tried not to abuse the power too much, but he was no saint and there was no resisting Madonna when it made Stiles so entertainingly enraged.

They stopped briefly at a roadside stall selling curios, but none of its wares were deemed kitschy enough for Erica’s horrible taste. Undeterred, Stiles grabbed a baseball cap with a crude slogan on it for his dad, chuckling to himself preemptively. There was a row of notebooks too, like Derek thought there would be, but they looked pretty flimsy so he passed them by. There would be other souvenir shops.

It was with great fanfare, when they switched driving shifts and Derek had taken the wheel again, that Stiles pulled up the number for their next motel stop.

“See, I am not forgetting this time,” he declared. “I am a fully functional, responsible, _mature_ adult, and I know how to do things like make reservations, so I’m making them now. See? You can confirm that I am, in fact, making them?”

Stiles sounded so proud of himself, and his phone appeared under Derek’s nose again, absent any sloths and with the confirmation email on display. Derek’s grip on the steering wheel tightened until the leather squeaked, but he confirmed it. Honestly, it was for the best. It was what _should_ have happened last night, and every night. Sharing a bed with Stiles had been an unfortunate fluke, not something to hope to repeat.

Logically, he _knew this,_ and yet it didn’t stop him from resenting the second bed in the hotel room that night. It was a perfectly good bed, only slightly smaller than last night’s and with noticeably softer linens that smelled like lavender, and it probably didn’t deserve the dirty look Derek gave it or how hard he threw down his bag on it. But it was committing the heinous crime of not giving Derek a reason to wake up with Stiles in his arms again.

Derek collapsed onto the bed’s edge, his head in his hands and the sound of Stiles’ shower in his ears, and told himself to get a _grip._ If he hadn’t already been fairly certain that Stiles wasn’t interested in him before today, that little scene with the waitress earlier would have clued him in. Even knowing ahead of time, Stiles’ reaction drove the point home in a way that stung something fierce.

There had to be a reason that Stiles made such a production of getting the room right this time, and that reason was so that Derek didn’t get any ideas about whether Stiles might have enjoyed waking up together as much as Derek had. For a brief moment when Stiles had sleepily pulled him closer, hope had flared up in Derek’s chest, and again with the beaming way Stiles had looked at him at the zoo, like there was nowhere he would’ve rather been than right there with Derek in that moment.

He kicked himself for it now. He should’ve known better.

Texting Braeden was a crapshoot—she was equally likely to tell him it was his own damn fault as she was to be at all sympathetic—but he was lucky this time. His _[you were right. this was a bad idea.]_ text was met with a long minute of typing and then a simple _[oh sweetie]_ that nonetheless said everything that needed to be said.

When Stiles was finished with the bathroom, Derek slid past him without a word and did not allow himself the luxury of brushing up against him in the cramped space. Stiles wasn’t interested in having Derek’s scent on him again.

* * *

“You feeling okay?”

Derek tore his eyes off the freeway to glance at Stiles in the passenger seat. “Huh?”

“You’ve just been unusually quiet,” Stiles said, his own gaze directed out the window. “I mean, even for you. I’ve played three Spice Girls songs in a row and you haven’t complained once! Did you not sleep well or something?”

 _Or something,_ Derek thought. He’d lain awake for an hour after Stiles had fallen asleep, distracted by the coolness of the sheets and the distant, muffled sound of Stiles tossing and turning on the other side of the room. He hadn’t been that fidgety last night. He’d been soft and pliable, sleep-warm and content with Derek pressed up against him. Derek had had to resist the urge to climb into Stiles’ bed and pin him down, to wrap himself around Stiles until he settled, to press his ear against Stiles’ chest and let the rhythm of their heartbeats sync up.

But he’d stayed where he was, sheets cold and empty around him. Considering Derek had been sleeping alone for months now, he would’ve thought he was used to it, but one night had been enough to remind him of how much he didn’t like it.

“Mattress was fucked up,” Derek said instead. “Pretty sure I’ve slept on concrete that was more comfortable.”

“Really?” Stiles hummed noncommittally. “Mine was okay.”

Derek merged into the fast lane and steadfastly did not think about how much more comfortable he would’ve been in Stiles’ bed. “Who’ve you been texting?”

In a show of convenient timing, Stiles’ phone buzzed in his lap with an incoming message, like it had been periodically for the last two hours or so.

“Oh,” Stiles said, like he’d forgotten all about the conversation he’d been carrying on. He didn’t open the new text. “It’s just Scott. He’s, uh… He’s actually thinking about proposing to Lydia.”

“Really?” An honest smile found its way onto Derek’s face, quickly followed by a frown. “Is this the best time for that?”

Stiles turned to peer at him in confusion. Then, “Oh! God, no, not this weekend. That would be so—” He laughed. “No, he’s not stealing the happy couple’s thunder. Just, you know, sometime soon. Probably.”

Potential crisis averted, Derek said, “Well, that’s great.”

“Yeah, it is.”

“Isn’t your dad planning on popping the question to Melissa soon too?” Derek asked.

Stiles nodded, lips pursed, much less enthused than he had been when he’d shared that tidbit of information with Derek via Skype a few weeks ago. He’d been practically bouncing off the wall over it then, ecstatic about years of matchmaking on his and Scott’s part finally coming to fruition. There was no bouncing now, just a half-hearted grin and a lukewarm, “Guess everybody’s having wedding fever lately, huh? First Boyd and Erica, then Dad and Melissa, now Scott and Lydia.”

“Is it…” Derek hesitated, hands clenching and unclenching around the steering wheel. “…weird? For you?” At Stiles’ questioning look, caught only out of the corner of his eye because the empty road in front of him was suddenly too fascinating to tear his eyes away from, he shrugged. “That Scott might marry Lydia. You loved her for a long time.”

Stiles’ eyes stayed on him for long enough that Derek almost broke and looked back. Then a huff of breath and rustle of clothes signaled Stiles slumping down in his seat, one foot coming up to brace against the dashboard.

“Maybe a little,” he admitted. “I mean, am I happy for them? Absolutely, one hundred and twenty-five percent, all-day-every-day happy. Those two are so in love and so perfect for each other, and no one deserves to be with the love of their life forever more than they do. But—” He sighed. “—growing up, yeah, I always sort of envisioned _me_ marrying Lydia. Not that I want to anymore, obviously, I got over her forever ago! I’m not, like, jealous of Scott or anything, I just—”

Stiles needn’t have worried about clarifying that; he didn’t _smell_ jealous at all. There wasn’t a lot of nuance to chemosignals most of the time, but loneliness was a pretty distinctive mix that Derek had a lot of practice recognizing. Sad with a sour edge, a touch of anger underlaid with guilt.

Derek could only be glad that Stiles couldn’t smell it on _him._ He swallowed against the familiar feeling—he had plenty of practice with that too—and said, “Makes sense. It’s hard to let something like that go.”

Stiles looked at him steadily for a few seconds longer, flipping his phone in his hand a few times, end over end. “Yeah, it is,” he said, finally dropping it back in his lap. “I don’t know, man. Just weird, is all.”

All Derek could do was nod.

Another text came buzzing in. Stiles turned the radio up and didn’t check it.

* * *

Apparently, Stiles had not been joking about the twine ball. For some reason, the prospect of seeing a bunch of string wrapped around itself was enough to lift Stiles’ mood considerably, and he had regained the spring in his step by the time they rolled into Cawker City.

“Nine tons, Derek,” he said emphatically as they approached the display. “ _Eight million feet of twine!_ ”

“Yes,” Derek said, trekking along in his wake, “but _why?_ What is exciting about that?”

Stiles spun around to face him, clumsy nature put to the test in trying to walk backwards uphill and through a crowd. “ _You,_ ” he said, “are no fun.”

Derek’s indignation was interrupted when Stiles ran into another tourist. The guy was bigger than Stiles, so it wasn’t much surprise that Stiles was the one to get knocked over. Derek caught him before he could hit the ground, at least, and the tourist was already disappearing back into the crowd. Stiles called out something rude that his assailant almost certainly neither heard nor cared about.

It wasn’t until the man was long out of sight that Stiles seemed to realize he was practically in Derek’s embrace. He scrambled to get his feet back under him, hands fluttering until they finally settled on Derek’s bicep in an awkward pat of gratitude.

“I’m plenty fun,” Derek grumbled back, stuffing his hands into his pockets to keep them from wrapping around Stiles’ waist and pulling him back in like they really wanted to. “Twine, on the other hand, is not fun.”

“It is when there’s a record-breaking amount of it!”

Stiles didn’t even see Derek’s eye-roll; they had finally crested the hill and the great ball itself was before them. It was ten feet tall, maybe a bit more, in an open structure surrounded by benches. So that people could sit and watch the twine…be twine-like? It would be akin to watching paint dry, Derek presumed, except less eventful.

And yet Stiles was quick to join the other patrons in their ogling. He leaned in close—completely ignoring the rope meant to prevent visitors from doing just that—and poked a finger into the ball’s side, picking at the tightly wound strands like that might be enough to make the whole thing fall apart. For a few minutes, Derek amused himself imagining Stiles’ startled and horrified reaction if it _did_ fall apart. Eight million feet of twine unravelling because of his interference. Now, _that_ would be worth seeing.

Derek sat himself down on the nearest bench alongside a very old lady who seemed nearly as enamored with the ball as Stiles and checked his phone. He had two texts from Scott—another sloth-related joke, and a question about water sprites for some paper he was writing in his mythology class—and one from Braeden.

It was just a question mark; Braeden wasn’t one for verbosity in any context, much less in texts. Derek had texted with her enough to know what she meant: was he okay? After last night’s moment of weakness, he couldn’t blame her for worrying about his emotional state.

He texted back, _[it’s ok. i can take a hint.]_ And then, a moment later, _[i’ll be fine.]_

The three dots flashed at him long enough that he almost shoved his phone back in his pocket and ignored anything else she had to say. But he wasn’t alone in an empty bed at midnight this time, hating his life, so he stuck it out. Braeden might be blunt to the point of pain sometimes, but it was a rare day when what she said wasn’t what he needed to hear.

This time, it was: _[hints don’t mean shit.]_

Derek frowned down at the words, nonplussed. He was still staring at them when another text came through.

_[you don’t make any gains if you don’t take any risks.]_

A familiar yelp drew Derek’s attention. Stiles was rubbing his elbow and smiling sheepishly at a woman with her enormous shoulder bag clutched tightly to her side. After she had flounced off, Stiles met Derek’s eye and shrugged, grin turning lopsided and conspiratorial, like Derek, at least, would understand whatever the joke was without him even having to say it.

Derek put his phone away. He had to elbow a few people out of his way to make it to Stiles’ side, but it was worth it for the way Stiles beamed at him.

“Finally coming to appreciate the brilliance of The Ball?”

“No,” Derek told him plainly. “It’s still stupid.”

Stiles rolled his eyes exaggeratedly enough that he almost ran into someone else. 

“Okay, okay,” he drawled. “How about this? You take a minimum of five photos here—three of me and my beloved ball of twine, one of the both of us, and one selfie—and you can choose our next stop.” He held his hands up, apparently to showcase how good of a deal that was. “Make sure one of those pictures has an actual smile on your face, and I’ll even give up my veto power, so your stop can be literally anything you want it to be!”

Eyebrow quirked, Derek said, “Literally anything? That’s a dangerous offer.”

Stiles just laughed, though, and pulled out his phone. “Please,” he scoffed, opening the camera app. “I trust you.”

With that, Stiles slung his arm over Derek’s shoulder. Derek barely registered Stiles’ drawn out declaration of _“Cheeeese!”_ with those words stuck in his ears. It wasn’t the first time he had ever heard them from Stiles, but combined with the warm weight of Stiles’ body and the spice of his scent all around, they packed an unexpected punch that left Derek in a bit of a daze as he took his selfie and the agreed upon three photos of Stiles cuddled up as close to the ball as he could get without someone alerting security.

By the time they got back to the car, Derek knew where he wanted them to go next. It might be a risk, somewhere he wouldn’t even think to take most people, but with Stiles, it didn’t feel like one.

* * *

Stiles didn’t start pestering Derek with questions until they’d traversed a significant length of gravel road, turned off, and pulled over to the side of a thin dirt trail. Derek was impressed; he’d expected Stiles to break an hour ago. He didn’t answer, though, just led the way down the road with a smirk on his face.

It was a pretty decent trek, but nothing either of them couldn’t handle. Derek, with his werewolf strength and endurance, could sprint for hours and not break a sweat, and Stiles’ FBI training had done wonders to keep him in shape. Long gone were the days when Stiles would get winded at lacrosse practice. Now, he kept pace with Derek easily, throwing out his best guesses for where they could be going.

“Bigfoot enclosure,” was his current theory. “Hidden deep in the woods and protected by armed guards to make sure that no one with intent to harm the reclusive creatures can happen upon them.”

Derek sent a dry look his way, which did absolutely nothing to curb his enthusiasm for the ridiculous idea. “Bigfoot isn’t real.”

“And how, exactly, do you know?”

“Stiles, there is no evidence that Bigfoot exists.”

“That’s not true!” Stiles exclaimed, hands flying through the air with the force of his gesticulations. “There’s plenty of evidence. It’s just dismissed as not credible enough. But is it _truly_ not credible, or do people just _want_ to dismiss it because it doesn’t fit in with their current understanding of the world? People dismiss claims about werewolves too, you know! Because werewolves ‘aren’t real’.”

He made air quotes, followed up by an expansive gesture at Derek’s person.

“It’s confirmation bias, Derek, I’m telling you,” he said. “People seeing what they want to see, and _not_ seeing what they _don’t_ want to see.”

“And, of course, the mysterious powers-that-be make use of this confirmation bias,” Derek said sagely. “To hide the Bigfoots and keep them safe.”

“Yup.”

Derek hummed in faux contemplation. With just as much solemnity, he pushed a branch out of his path and then let it snap back to give Stiles a face full of leaves. He ignored Stiles’ coughs and melodramatic insistence that he swallowed a bug and said, “Nice theory. Bigfoot still isn’t real.”

Stiles paused in de-leafing his hair to tap the side of his nose instead. “That’s what they _want_ you to think.”

He winked. Derek nearly tripped over a tree root. With a huff of well-disguised exasperation—directly mostly at himself, though he wouldn’t admit that—Derek picked up the pace. Stiles groaned but hurried to catch up, falling in at Derek’s side and finally letting quiet take them over.

The woods were beautiful, lush and green and vibrant. Bright afternoon sun peered down at them to dapple the ground in gold. Branches swayed in the breeze with a gentle _shushshush_ and the underbrush crackled with the scurrying of animals. Underneath it all, distant but growing, was the babble and roar of water.

The waterfall was just like Derek remembered it. Rising high above them, the face of the cliff was craggy and terraced, water splashing against every level to cascade into the wide pool below. The backspray hung in the air all around, fine mist cool against his face in the warmth of the day. He breathed deep and tasted the pure tang of growth and life.

“Oh, wow.”

Derek turned to find Stiles at his shoulder, peering up with wide, wondering eyes. They were almost luminescent in the sunlight, lit up warm and gold, and the graceful bow of his mouth hung open.

“This is beautiful.” His voice was hushed, like he didn’t want to break the peace of the place by daring to speak in it.

“Yeah,” Derek said, eyes on Stiles. “It is.”

“How’d you know about this place anyway?” Stiles asked. “Kansas isn’t exactly known for its waterfalls.”

Derek ducked his head, one hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck. “I’ve been here before.” His eyes found the falls again, the white froth exactly how it had been back then. “My family came this way for a vacation when I was fourteen. It was the last trip we all took together.”

Stiles sucked in a sharp breath. “Derek—”

“It’s okay,” Derek said. “I’m not— It’s a good memory. We were happy here. It’s nice to remember the times when we were happy.”

That trip had been full of whining and bickering, kicking each other in the backseat and driving their parents crazy, but the little frustrations felt like nothing now. More than any of that, he remembered Cora’s peals of laughter as their dad had hoisted her up in his arms and thrown her into the water. Their mother had tried to chastise them while her grin gave her away. Laura had poked at Derek’s cheeks until his stubborn teenage bad mood hadn’t been able to hold out any longer and he’d chased her under the spray.

It had all seemed silly at the time. He’d had to miss a basketball game for that trip, and he remembered bitching about it incessantly, as if any game could’ve been more important than who he was with. As if that day wouldn’t become one of the most treasured memories of his life.

The sun shone and the falls roared, exactly as they had done back then, and Derek could almost convince himself that his family was just out of sight. He might’ve expected that to hurt. Instead, the thought settled easily in his chest, warm and gentle and precious.

Caught up in the feeling of it all, it took him a long time to realize that Stiles was unusually silent. When Derek turned to look, he found Stiles already looking back. His face, normally so sharp and full of humor, was soft and open. His lips were parted too, like he’d tried to say something and lost the words. His eyes were busy roving over Derek’s face, gliding along his cheeks, tracing the bow of his lips, following the line of his nose. Finally, they met Derek’s and, all at once, Stiles seemed to notice that Derek’s attention was on him.

His mouth shut with a click, cheeks going pink in an instant. He ducked his head, one hand flying up to rub at the back of his neck, and turned hastily back to the waterfall. Squinting at it, he cleared his throat and let his hand fall. After a moment of hesitation, it came down on Derek’s shoulder instead, warm and gentle. Stiles’ smile, when he turned it on Derek again, was equally so.

He gave Derek’s shoulder a light squeeze and said, “You know what?”

“What?”

“This might be better than the ball of twine.”

Derek sputtered. “Stiles, literally _anything_ is better than the ball of twine. It’s just string!”

Laughing, Stiles dodged the swipe Derek made for him, ducking back out of range. In a show of agility Derek hadn’t thought him capable of, he skipped his way down the uneven path to the rocky ledge that bordered the water without falling in. He raised his arms in triumph and whooped, his voice echoing all around them.

Laura had done the same thing, once upon a time.

Derek didn’t follow him down immediately. He watched from a distance as Stiles kicked off his shoes, stuck his toes in the pool, and yanked them back out with a yelp, muttering about the cold. It was only a few minutes before Stiles turned back around, craning his neck to find Derek, and waved impatiently for Derek to join him. He was smiling.

Derek had never seen anything more beautiful.

* * *

It was well past midnight by the time they hauled their bags into the motel lobby. Stiles must have been responsible again because the concierge checked his ID and handed over their keycards without issue.

Two beds in the room. Derek tried not to let that dampen his good mood. His clothes were already damp enough as it was—Stiles’ bad footing had dragged them both into the pool before too long, and after that, there had been no reason not to stand directly under the waterfall and let it pummel them until they got knocked over again—and stripping his sticky shirt off was a relief. He threw it on the bed and followed it down, laying himself out crossways.

“Is that one any better?”

Derek hoisted himself up to see Stiles, fresh out of the shower with a towel over his head, scrubbing at his damp hair. He made a questioning noise.

“The bed.” Stiles pointed to it helpfully. “You said that you didn’t sleep well last night because your mattress was bad.”

“Oh.” Derek _had_ said that, hadn’t he? He patted the comforter by his hip. “It’s, uh…”

“You could—” Stiles cut himself off, dragging the towel down off his head. It left his hair a riot of messy spikes. “I just mean, if this one’s sucky too, I don’t want you to be exhausted tomorrow or anything. Tired drivers are bad drivers, you know! It’s almost as bad as driving drunk. Statistically speaking.”

“That’s bad,” Derek said slowly, not quite sure where this was going. Stiles’ face was flushed pink, likely from the heat of the shower.

“Yeah. So I’m just saying,” Stiles went on, “if you want—if you _need_ to, I mean—you could—” He flung out a hand in the direction of the other bed. _His_ bed.

_Oh._

Derek curled his fingers into the soft, clean bedding on his perfectly acceptable bed and said, carefully, “You sure?”

“Yeah.” Stiles shrugged, towel in his hands swinging haphazardly as he turned to rummage through one of his suitcases. “Yeah, it’s cool, it’s fine. I don’t mind. Two mature adults, remember?”

“One and a half,” Derek said. “At best.”

Stiles paused in his pursuit of pajamas to give Derek a dirty look. “Oh, ha ha, funny man. Don’t make me change my mind.”

Chuckling, Derek raised his hands in surrender and made a break for the bathroom before Stiles could rescind the offer.

A quick shower later, Derek hesitated. Stiles was already in bed, turned on his side with his phone in hand. All of their luggage had been dumped on the other bed while he was out of the room. It was as good an indication as any that Stiles had been serious about the offer, despite the way their last bed-sharing experiment had ended. Despite Stiles’ vehement resistance to a stranger’s innocent assumption about the nature of their relationship.

Derek had thought that he knew what that had meant, that it had been pretty clear. But the way Stiles had looked at him today. The way he had always been searching for Derek with his eyes, seeking him out no matter what else was demanding his attention. The open way he had laughed, wet hair slicked back from his face, and the gentleness of his hand on Derek’s shoulder.

_Hints don’t mean shit._

Derek flicked off the lights and crawled into bed. Stiles startled, fumbling with his phone, but the brief panic didn’t last. He just laughed at himself a bit and then refocused, tapping away at the screen. From where he was, Derek couldn’t see the screen, but it was a pretty safe bet that he was texting.

Derek settled back against his pillow, very conscious of the few inches of empty space between them. “Alarm set?”

“Yeah, I’ll do it in just a minute.” Stiles’ words were warped by a tremendous yawn. “Need an early start, make up for how long we stayed out today.”

Derek was not looking forward to that, but he was right. They’d stayed out at the waterfall a full two hours longer than they’d allotted for the day’s non-driving ventures. It had been worth it, no doubt about that, but it would mean driving a little longer and a little faster to get them back on schedule tomorrow.

A yawn fought its way out of Derek too, eyelids drooping. He was warm and content, Stiles’ steady heartbeat and clean, sweet scent at his side. It only took him a few minutes to drop off, even with the glow from Stiles’ phone lighting up the dark.

* * *

Derek woke up slowly and reluctantly. He was so cozy that the prospect of moving, even just to open his eyes, was woefully unappealing. But a shaft of sunlight had found its way through the gap in the curtains to land directly on his face. It was hard to ignore. Even turning further into the warmth of his pillow wasn’t enough to block it out completely.

Except it wasn’t a pillow. It was, like last time, Stiles’ chest. It rose and fell gently in the rhythm of peaceful sleep, heart beating strong in Derek’s ear. When Derek shifted ever so slightly to peer up at him, Stiles’ eyes were closed and his mouth open around a light snore. His arm was heavy around Derek’s middle, hand resting comfortably on his lower back, and their legs were tangled together in a mess of twisted blankets and cold toes.

It was wonderful.

It was also a problem, for multiple reasons, the most pressing of which blinked at Derek from the bedside table’s digital clock.

**10:52 AM**

Derek swore loudly. Stiles jolted awake with a snort, blinking around with bleary, unfocused eyes. He didn’t immediately let go of Derek, the arm around his waist tightening and fist curling into Derek’s shirt instead, and Derek didn’t even have the time to appreciate it because they were _late._

“Stiles, get up!” he demanded, tearing himself away from what might literally have been his ideal morning and diving for his duffel bag. “We were supposed to be on the road two hours ago. Did you not set the alarm?”

For a moment, all Stiles did was blink at him, clearly still processing his abrupt shift to consciousness. Then comprehension of Derek’s words set in, accompanied by a frenzy of motion and a storm of cursing twice as colorful as anything Derek could have come up with. By the time Derek had real pants on, Stiles had unearthed his phone from the depths of the bedsheets, unresponsive.

“Fuck,” he sighed. “I must have fallen asleep on it before I could. _Shit._ ”

Derek threw a handful of clothes at him from the nearest suitcase, uncaring of what sort of outfit it would make, and said, “We’re gonna miss our check-out time if we don’t get a move on. We can make up the difference if we leave right now.”

Stiles hastened to obey, and they were checked out of the hotel, in the car, and on the road in seven minutes flat. As Derek pulled out onto the freeway, Stiles slumped down in his seat and rubbed both hands over his face.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “I was just talking to Lydia last night about some stuff, and it’d been a long day, and I swear I was going to— Oh god, if we’re late to this wedding, Erica will literally kill me.”

“We’re not going to be late to the wedding,” Derek told him, fighting back a yawn. He was still blinking sleep out of his eyes and the sun was rudely bright. “If for no other reason than we’re supposed to get into town the day _before._ Worst comes to worst, we get in that morning instead and have to rush to get dressed and there.”

“But what if we’re so late today that we don’t make it to our hotel tonight and we have to move the whole schedule back?” Stiles said. “And it’s supposed to rain tomorrow, so that’ll slow us down some more, and there’s always the risk of traffic jams or accidents or road closures with long detours or—”

“We’re not going to miss the wedding,” Derek cut in, before Stiles could work himself into a state. “I promise you, we’re not missing anything.”

Stiles didn’t answer him. His leg was bouncing. Normally, Derek would snap at him for shaking the whole car, but with the sour twist of anxiety blooming in Stiles’ scent, he opted to keep the comment to himself this time. The chemosignal was so strong that it almost covered up Derek's scent on him. They hadn’t had time to shower before racing out the door and it was all over him, pressed into Stiles’ skin and his hair.

Derek swallowed, tightening his grip on the wheel. He wanted nothing more than to take Stiles’ hand, to tangle their fingers together, to ground Stiles somehow. With their scents so intertwined, it almost felt like he had a right to do that. Like Stiles was _his._ But he wasn’t. Derek had no claim on him, not really, and the way Stiles was curled in on himself was far from inviting. If Stiles didn’t want Derek touching him, then Derek would keep his hands to himself, no matter how much he wanted to reach out.

For a few miles, there was nothing but the rumble of tires on asphalt and the occasional honk of a horn. It was painfully quiet. Eventually, Derek cleared his throat and gestured toward the radio, display currently dark.

“You’re slacking,” he said. “The music is your job, isn’t it? Pick us something good.”

Stiles reached for the dial obediently. He channel surfed for a while, half-hearted at best, until he landed on the dulcet strains of _Uptown Funk._ Derek groaned, but Stiles perked up just a bit; he’d always had an annoying fondness for that song. When it had first come out, he’d spent weeks quoting it at every opportunity, making ridiculous faces and trying his damnedest to badger Derek into finishing the line for him.

As much as Derek hated it, the stupid song was doing the trick. By the second chorus, Stiles was bobbing his head, mouthing along to the words. Derek told himself that he would _not_ give in, that the words “hot damn” would not cross his lips, no matter what.

His resolve lasted only as long as it took for Stiles to crack a real smile.

* * *

In the hopes of making up time, they agreed to forgo their planned side trip for the day. Neither of them had been particularly enthused about visiting a stamp museum anyway. The roadside attractions in this part of the country were just plain boring, and the stamp museum had been the best there was on offer when Stiles fell into his research binge.

While it meant they were less pressed for time, it also meant they were stuck in the car for longer than usual with no break. At least the stamp museum would have let them stretch their legs and given them something to look at that wasn’t miles of asphalt. The tedium of the road had been bearable, sometimes even fun, at the start. But this was day three, and it was starting to wear on them.

The radio’s selection of music quit satisfying Stiles three hours in and he resorted to plugging his phone into the aux port and picking random songs on youtube. Derek vetoed that after _The Ultimate Showdown Of Ultimate Destiny_ —which he found disturbing on a number of levels—and Stiles huffed and turned the whole thing off in favor of staring out the window petulantly.

Derek kept driving. _He_ didn’t have nearly as much of a problem with silence as Stiles did; Stiles would break first.

He was proved right approximately six minutes later when Stiles leaned forward to tap on the windshield. “I spy with my little eye something yellow.”

“What?” Derek scanned the road in front of him, the billboards flying past, their surroundings mostly open, empty fields. There was nothing yellow anywhere to be seen. At least, not anymore. “Stiles, you can’t play I-Spy in a moving car,” he said, baffled. “That game relies on having a stationary setting that you can examine.”

For all of one second, Stiles looked sheepish, like that genuinely hadn’t occurred to him. Then, his jaw set in that stubborn way of his and said, “You can if the surroundings are keeping pace with you.”

“That just guarantees it has to be one of the other cars! Not much of a guessing game.”

Beaten, Stiles threw himself back into his seat. “Well, I’m _bored._ I don’t know any other games, so sue me.”

Derek rolled his eyes. His fingers tapped restlessly against the steering wheel. He considered just letting the silence fester, if only out of spite—Stiles wasn’t the only one feeling cooped up and tense today—but, frankly, he was bored too.

“My family used to play a game,” he offered up. “Stupid game, mostly for Cora’s benefit when she was really young and just learning the alphabet.”

Stiles perked up. “What kind of game?”

“The kind where you look for letters on license plates,” Derek told him. “And then make up stupid phrases that they might stand for. Like that one.” He pointed to the car directly in front of them, Minnesota plates on a blue Chevrolet truck. “It’s got _DFB_ on it. That could stand for…Dab For Bananas.”

Stiles’ own laughter caught him so off guard that he ended coughing. “Oh my god, Derek,” he managed to say eventually. “How do you even know what dabbing _is?_ ”

“Believe it or not, I do listen to Liam when he talks. Sometimes.”

“I’m telling him you said that.” Stiles whipped out his phone. “Liam is not gonna believe—”

“You can do that,” Derek said lightly, “if you wanna forfeit your turn.”

Stiles’ head snapped up. “My turn? We’re taking turns with this?”

“Of course. Do you forfeit yours so you can text instead?”

“ _Hell no!_ It’s go-time, and you’re going _down._ ”

* * *

The stupid license plate game carried them through their shift change, Stiles taking over the wheel after a much-needed rest stop. They came up with such entertaining acronyms as Honk For Strippers (Stiles), Birds Eat Hotwings (Derek), and Teachers Never Yeet (Stiles, who felt the need to explain to Derek, very slowly and in small words, what “yeet” meant since he had apparently missed picking up that one from the younger pack members).

Despite framing it as a competition, there wasn’t really any way to win or lose. The quality of the phrases was a subjective thing, and Scott hadn’t answered fast enough when Stiles had texted a few to him for impartial judgment, so they were left to debate the merits of each one on their own. By the time their enthusiasm for the game waned, they had agreed to call it a draw.

They stopped to refuel and eat a very late lunch/early dinner around four. It was an awkward time for a meal, but with how late they’d woken up, they didn’t really care. Mostly they just wanted to get out of the damn car.

Standing up straight had never felt so good. Derek stretched his arms up over his head with a groan, feeling every muscle pull and every vertebrae realign itself. His lower back popped twice.

It was cool out, at least compared to the car. Even with the AC running, it could get a little stuffy, especially for a werewolf with a highly tuned nose. He took in big lungfulls of fresh air, untainted by their own scents mixed with the sharp leather-and-cleaning-product rental car smell and the faint mustiness of their suitcases full of already-worn clothes. It was a relief to wash it all away with the cleanness of the breeze.

Occupied as Derek was, Stiles beat him inside the little diner they had chosen. All the booths along the wall were full, despite the odd hour, and Stiles had settled on one of the tall stools at the counter instead. He was poring over a trifold menu, head bobbing, fingers and toes all tapping to whatever music he had going on in his head. He was so absorbed, he didn’t notice Derek claiming the stool beside him.

That was probably a good thing. After so long stewing in the car with all the scents that accumulated there, Derek had gotten a little nose-blind. Now, though, in the freshness of the new environment, it hit him all over again: Stiles still smelled like him. Like _his._ A rush of possessiveness had his eyes flashing before he could stop them, hands reaching for Stiles on instinct.

Derek yanked them back as a waitress sidled up to the counter in front of them, notepad and pencil at the ready. She didn’t pay Derek any attention, eyes already fixed on Stiles. Her pink lips curved into an inviting grin when her presence managed what Derek’s hadn’t and Stiles looked up.

“What can I get for you, handsome?” she asked, a midwestern twang dragging her words out despite how far past the midwest they’d already driven. Derek wondered if she faked it to get more tips.

Stiles blinked at her a few times. Then he smiled. “Still thinking.”

“I could make a few suggestions, if you like.” The waitress tucked her notepad into the pocket of her apron and leaned forward, elbows on the counter. It brought her close enough to point at something on Stiles’ menu. It also meant her cleavage was on full display, which Derek was certain was her true goal.

Stiles made a considering noise.

“ _I’m_ ready to order,” Derek said pointedly. Stiles didn’t seem to notice his tone, but the waitress did. Her sweet face soured a bit. Derek smiled back woodenly and read off the first thing he saw on the board of specials hung up on the wall. She tugged her notepad back out and scribbled it down with jerky motions of her pencil. Then she turned back to Stiles, the sweetness immediately making a comeback.

Stiles gave his menu a shake. “Just gimme one more minute, will you?” he told her. “Thanks.” 

She finally moved off with a quick stink-eye thrown in Derek’s direction. Stiles waited until she was out of earshot, down the line of booths in the back, and then said, more quietly, “What was that?”

Okay, so maybe Stiles _had_ noticed.

“What was what?” Derek said, head buried in the menu that he no longer needed.

 _“That.”_ Stiles gestured in the direction of the retreating waitress. “Rude much?”

Derek eyed the menu harder. “She was being unprofessional.”

“You mean friendly?”

Derek meant _flirty._ He didn’t say it, though. He had already let his mouth run away with him too much, their combined scents bright and warm and misleading in his nose. He kept his head down and breathed through his mouth, lest he say something even more damning. They still had a day and a half stuck in a car together; now would be a shitty time to make things awkward.

When Derek didn’t respond, Stiles huffed. His hand came to rest on Derek's clenched fist.

"What’s your damage, man? She’s just trying to get a good tip.” Stiles flashed him a tentative smile. "Look, I know you're a little sore about losing the license plate game—which you _totally_ did, by the way, and I don’t care what Scott said about it—but don't take that out on her."

Stiles squeezed his hand. The touch was warm and reassuring, just like it had been at the waterfall. Like that first morning, when he had carded his fingers through Derek’s hair and sleepily pulled him closer. Like _this_ morning, tangled up together to leave that intoxicating shared scent on them both.

With the way Stiles was leaning in close, a line of heat against his shoulder and one bright point of contact, it was all Derek could do not to cross the remaining distance and kiss him. It would be so easy, barely a turn of the head and he could—

He yanked his hand away, heart in his throat.

Stiles pulled back just as sharply, throwing his hand up between them in a helpless gesture only for it to fall back to the counter with a loud slap. A second later, he was shoving his stool away from the counter.

“Tell her I’ll be back in a minute.”

He was out the door before Derek could even ask where he was going. He took their scents—streaked through with residual anxiety and new anger—with him, and it was as much a relief as it was a disappointment. Derek filled his lungs with the french-fry-and-grease-scented diner air left in his wake and let the breath out slowly.

His skin tingled where Stiles had touched it, a phantom thrill that lingered and, _fuck,_ he was such an idiot. Stiles was just being nice, being the good friend that he was, and it wasn’t his fault that Derek’s scent-addled brain couldn’t handle that. Just because it had sort of _felt_ like Stiles wouldn’t have protested if Derek had kissed him didn’t mean it was true, and it didn’t give Derek license to act like a dick.

He should apologize, he knew that much.

But, damn it, it _had_ felt like that. At the start, Derek had been so sure that they were only friends, but did friends touch each other like that? Had he spent so much time friendless in his life that he had forgotten how they were supposed to interact, or did Stiles’ lingering touch and soft smiles lately actually mean what Derek sort of felt like they could?

He scrubbed his hands over his face, hard, and thought back over everything. That didn’t do anything but make him more confused. It was all mixed signals, or signals that he was misreading, and he didn’t want to misread this. Not if there was even the smallest chance.

Braeden’s texts came back to him again.

_Hints don’t mean shit._

No risks, no gains.

He had to say something.

Derek flagged down the waitress, ignoring the cool look she gave him, and ordered a full lunch spread with extra curly fries on Stiles’ behalf, to be put on his own check. Then he draped his jacket over both their seats and followed Stiles outside.

Derek didn’t see him at first, but a quick sniff led him around the left side of the building. Stiles was there, broad shoulders against the rough brick wall and legs kicked out in front of him. Derek’s heart kicked at the sight of him, which was horribly cliché and Derek sort of wanted to slap himself for it, but he also wanted to press close to Stiles, to lean against the long line of his body, cage him against the wall and kiss the breath out of him. He wanted to be allowed to do that. He needed to know if Stiles would let him.

He stepped forward, steeling himself for the chance he was about to take, but Stiles’ voice stopped him before he could make his presence known.

“—and I just don’t know what to do here,” he was saying, phone against his ear. His other hand rubbed at his forehead and the toe of one shoe scuffed along the dirty sidewalk.

Derek wasn’t close enough to hear what was being said on the other end of the line, but whatever it was made Stiles sigh, sharp and aggravated.

“I’m not stupid, Lydia,” he said. “But neither is he. He knows how I feel by now, okay? About him, about _us._ He _has_ to. And yet he keeps doing this stuff anyway! Snapping at flirty waitresses, a-and cuddling up to me like he doesn’t _know_ what that—”

Derek’s heart took a nosedive into his stomach, landing with an acidic splash that seared all the way up into his chest. It doused the tentative hope that had bloomed there.

He _did_ know. He’d known what he was doing, how badly he was telegraphing his own feelings, he just… He’d thought that, maybe… 

Maybe he should’ve known better.

Derek pressed himself against the wall, back around the corner and out of sight. He couldn’t make himself go back inside. Down the way, Stiles sighed again. It sounded tired this time.

“I know,” he said. “I _know,_ I’ve got to— I’ll talk to him about it, for _both_ our sakes, but just— Not before the wedding.” He huffed out a sad attempt at a laugh. “It’s gonna _hurt,_ Lyds, and we’ve still got a day and a half’s drive. I don’t want to make things more awkward and painful than they already are.”

God, Derek wished he could resent Stiles for that, for trying to _manage_ him and his feelings. For doing preemptive damage control on their friendship because Derek couldn’t keep his crush in check. But hadn’t Derek just been thinking the same damn thing? It should have been a relief, really, that they were on the same page.

At least now he had an answer.

Stiles rounded the corner and stopped short, eyes widening. He glanced down at the phone still in his hand—Derek hadn’t noticed him ending the call, too caught up swallowing down the burn in his throat to hear what else was said—and then back at Derek.

“Fuck… How much of that did you—”

“I ordered for you,” Derek said. “Food should be out by now.”

He kept his head down; he didn’t want to see pity on Stiles’ face or hear whatever apology he would come out with. He’d already heard everything he needed to hear.

“Oh,” Stiles said blankly. “I, um— Okay.”

Derek turned on his heel and led the way back inside. Stiles followed in his wake without another word. He didn’t eat his curly fries, but he didn’t offer them to Derek either.

* * *

They’d both been right; the rest of the day in the car was awkward and painful. There were no more stupid car games. The radio stayed on inoffensive stations, turned up just loud enough that they could pretend it was the reason they weren’t talking. Derek cracked the windows so the exhaust-scented breeze could wash away the smell of Stiles’ guilt and misery.

The night was even worse. Separate beds with no offer to share made or accepted. Heavy silence broken only by the restless rustling of blankets, both of them tossing and turning well into the night. Derek wasn’t sure he’d truly slept at all, and the dark smudges under Stiles’ eyes in the morning said that he probably hadn’t either.

Derek supposed it was a mark of how good a friend Stiles was that he felt so bad for hurting Derek’s feelings. Derek wished he didn’t. Not just because the smell of Stiles’ pain lodged in his throat like a pebble no amount of coughing could remove, but because it wasn’t Stiles’ fault. Derek was the only one to blame here. _He_ should be the one feeling like shit.

Which he was, anyway, but it should’ve been _just_ him. This whole trip had been Stiles’ dream to start with. He deserved to enjoy it. And Derek had ruined that.

They had only had one stop planned for their last day of travel, but it was one that Stiles had been particularly excited about. He made no mention of it as they approached the turn-off, but he didn’t comment when Derek took the exit ramp either. Derek couldn’t tell if it was because he still wanted to go, despite the tension between them, or just because he would take any excuse to get out of the smothering atmosphere of the car. Either way, Derek wasn’t going to be the reason that he missed this.

Stiles at least tried to muster up some of his usual good nature when they got inside. It was a museum dedicated entirely to mobs and mobsters, after all. Even their current predicament couldn’t entirely turn him off from that. But the way he perused the exhibits was half-hearted and distracted. Twice he turned to share a fact with Derek, only to stop himself mid-word, shove his flailing hands back into his pockets, and turn back to the display in silence.

A silent Stiles was the worst kind.

Derek texted Braeden. _[the risk wasn’t worth it.]_ Then he turned his phone off.

He wandered the main floor alone until Stiles found him again. His shoulders were a defeated slump, despite the attempt at a smile he pulled onto his face. He nodded toward the gift shop and there was nothing for Derek to do but follow.

It didn’t take long for Derek to find a notebook for Boyd, a sturdy leather-bound thing with some pithy gangster quote on the front that he would appreciate. There was a sweatshirt that Cora would probably like, so he grabbed that too, even though she wasn’t going to be at the wedding. He could mail it to her.

He was about to head for the checkout counter when a flash of color caught his eye.

It was a pair of brass knuckles. Hot pink brass knuckles with rhinestones embedded in them and a pair of lined eyes winking coyly on the side. They were the most garish thing he had ever seen. They might as well have had Erica’s name printed on them.

He turned to find Stiles, to tell him to put back whatever else he had found and buy these instead, but Derek didn’t see him in line. He was a few displays over, staring at a row of Al Capone plushies with unfocused eyes. He didn’t look like he’d moved in a while. Derek could hear the faint buzz of Stiles’ phone in his pocket. The texts went ignored.

After a few seconds, Stiles glanced up and caught Derek’s eye. At once, he fixed a rubber smile on his face and thumbed over his shoulder toward the exit. He slid out the door, clearly having forgotten all about souvenirs in his haste to get away.

Guilt bubbled up in Derek’s gut, corrosive and inescapable. Stuffing it down with all the rest, he snatched the brass knuckles off the shelf himself and joined the checkout line.

* * *

They rolled into town earlier than planned—they’d expected the museum to keep them occupied for hours, not barely forty minutes. If circumstances had been different, it might’ve been a good thing. They could’ve called up their friends, gotten in a few hours of catching up after so long apart. But now, honestly, that was the _last_ thing that Derek wanted to do.

Stiles wasn’t up for socializing either, judging by his lack of complaint when Derek drove him straight to his house. He paused on his way out of the car, one foot on the ground and his fingers drumming a nervous beat on the door’s edge. His throat worked around a swallow, loud in the quiet between them.

“So, uh…thanks for making the trip with me,” he finally said. “I had a lot of fun. I’m glad you came.”

Miraculously, there was no trace of a lie. His scent was sad and bitter, but his heartbeat was steady and true. Derek supposed it made sense; they _had_ had fun, at the start. It was just the ending that had taken such a miserable turn.

His own heart ached, but he smiled. “Yeah. Me too.”

It wasn’t a lie.

* * *

Derek’s tux felt itchy. It was probably psychosomatic, considering how much the damn thing had cost, but that didn’t change how uncomfortable Derek was. At least he wasn’t part of the wedding party and could get away with not wearing a bowtie, though Lydia might tear him a new one for the breach of fashion etiquette.

He’d managed to avoid her, and everyone else, so far. They were all busy with last minute coordination efforts, managing the catering staff and various other bridal preparations, so Derek had gotten a few hugs from the pack members he hadn’t seen in a while and then been left to his own devices. Currently, those devices were wandering through the empty reception hall and feeling sorry for himself.

The venue was beautiful, at least, light and airy and full of those little round tables with candles on them. Rows of chairs were set up outside before an arch wreathed in pink begonias. The sun was shining and a light breeze rustled the trees overhead. Boyd and Erica couldn’t have asked for a more perfect day.

Derek collapsed into a wooden folding chair bedecked with pink ribbons with a sigh. He pulled the bejeweled brass knuckles out of his pocket. Somehow, they felt like they fit right in with the tasteful decor. He’d thought about giving them to Erica when he’d stuck his head into her dressing room earlier—met with a squeal of delight and a hairspray-scented hug that had almost broken his ribs—but it hadn’t felt right. It was _Stiles’_ tradition to give Erica terrible gag gifts, not Derek’s. These were supposed to be from him.

Stiles hadn’t arrived yet. Or, if he had, he’d made himself scarce enough that Derek hadn’t gotten so much as a sniff of him. The thought of Stiles deliberately avoiding him settled heavily in Derek’s stomach, but a part of him was grateful. They would both be able to enjoy this day more with some distance.

He turned the brass knuckles over in his hand, idly watching the little fake diamonds sparkle in the sunlight streaming in from the high windows. The chatter of the guests milling around outside washed over him, indistinct but soothing, and he found himself slipping into a bit of a semi-contented daze.

The sharp clack of high heels on tile snapped him out of it and, suddenly, Lydia was there. Her hair was elaborately pinned up, a few stray curls hanging down to frame her furious face, and it was amazing how effectively such a small woman could _loom._

Her voice was as sharp as her stilettos when she demanded, “What did you do to Stiles?”

Derek almost fumbled the brass knuckles. “What? I didn’t do _anything_ to Stiles!”

“You did something,” Lydia insisted. “I haven’t seen Stiles this despondent in a very long time, and whatever you did to cause it, I expect you to _fix it._ ”

Derek stared at her, open-mouthed and a little offended. It wasn’t like he hadn’t known that Stiles was upset—that much had been obvious for the last two days, and he didn’t like it any more than Lydia did—but what about _him,_ huh? Stiles wasn’t the only despondent one here, and wasn’t Lydia his packmate too? Derek was the one who’d been rejected, for fuck’s sake. Where was _his_ sympathy?

“I’m so sorry that I can’t fix my emotions,” Derek deadpanned. “I’ll work on that.”

Lydia had the gall to roll her eyes at him. “Don’t be obtuse, Derek.”

“I’m not being—!”

Derek cut himself off with a huff. He stood, too tense to stay seated any longer, and shoved the brass knuckles back into his pants pocket. Hands now at loose ends, he pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes until he felt a little less like screaming. When he let them fall, Lydia was examining him with sharp, narrowed eyes. He’d always hated that look; it saw more than it had any right to.

“Lydia,” he sighed, suddenly tired down to his bones. “I don’t want to do this today. Can we just not? For Erica and Boyd’s sake, at least, if mine doesn’t mean anything to you.”

But, apparently, Lydia wasn’t even listening to him. “You can’t fix your emotions,” she said, slow and considering, like she hadn’t caught his words when he’d said them and was just now catching up.

“No,” Derek bit out. “I can’t. And Stiles made his feelings very clear, so if you would just—”

“I don’t think he did.”

Derek threw up his hands in frustration. “Yes, he did, Lydia! I heard you two talking, okay? The other day, on the phone.”

“You heard us talking,” Lydia parroted back at him. “Talking about Stiles’ feelings.”

_“Yes.”_

“About his _feelings,_ ” she said, again, arms coming up to cross tightly over her chest in that intimidatingly judgmental way of hers. “His feelings for _you,_ Derek. The big, romantic, love-type feelings that Stiles has been harboring, _for you,_ for literal years, you oblivious ignoramus.”

Derek’s mouth, already open and ready to tell her to, please, for the love god, _drop it,_ snapped shut abruptly.

Perfectly tweezed eyebrows arched in triumph, red lips quirking up to match. “When Stiles texted me that it was no longer an issue and then stopped responding to me for two whole days, I figured that you had shut him down because you didn’t return his feelings. Not because you actually _did,_ but had completely misinterpreted them like a conclusion-jumping nincompoop.”

Derek flushed. He cast around in his memory for that phone call, for the exact words that Stiles had said, for anything concrete and irrefutably negative. His stomach gave a strange, conflicted lurch when he couldn’t find anything.

Through the tightness of his throat, Derek couldn’t get any words out, but Lydia didn’t seem to care if he said anything. She just shook her head and said, “He’s around the back.”

Derek was out the door between one heartbeat and the next.

* * *

“Around the back” was a beautiful little courtyard with a sizable oak tree in the middle. Stiles was leaned up against the trunk, his bowtie untied and dangling around his neck. His suit jacket was flung over the nearest bench and he’d rolled his shirtsleeves up. Languid and loose, dappled in sunlight through the canopy of leaves above him, he was unfairly beautiful.

His head was down, but it snapped up when he heard Derek’s footsteps. Tension crept into his frame. “What are you doing out here?”

“What are _you?_ ” Derek asked.

“Hiding from Erica.” Stiles scratched at the back of his neck. “Probably shitty of me, I know. It’s just—I don’t know if you noticed, but I sort of forgot the whole ‘souvenir’ thing. And I don’t wanna be the one to ruin the wedding day by disappointing the bride. I figured maybe if I just stall long enough, I can get away with not telling her until after the ceremony, and hopefully at that point, she’ll be so enamored with newlywed life that she’ll forget all about it and I won’t have to admit to it at all!”

Derek laughed softly. Just seeing Stiles, hearing his babble again, even after so short a time without it, loosened the tightness in his chest. He wanted that babble in his ear every day. He wanted Stiles in his bed every night, warm and soft and content, wrapped up in his arms and smelling of nothing but the two of them. He wanted to listen to Stiles’ obnoxious music, and refuse to laugh at his terrible jokes, and play his ridiculous road trip games, and hold his fucking hand for as long as Stiles would let him. He just wanted _Stiles._

Lydia’s words rang in his ears, and he couldn’t _believe_ that he had almost let this slip away from him.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Stiles froze halfway through another run-on sentence. Then he shook his head, a forced smile on his face. “Hey, it’s not _your_ fault I spaced on the souvenir thing.”

“You know that’s not what I meant.” Derek stepped forward, wanting so badly to wipe away the mask and replace it with a _real_ smile. The kind of smile that he’d gotten from Stiles at the ball of twine, at the waterfall, at the zoo. The smile that said there was nowhere else in the world he would rather be, and no one he would rather be there with. “Stiles, I—”

Stiles’ face fell. He hastily slid out from between Derek and the tree, putting distance between them. “We don’t have to do this.”

“Yes, Stiles, we do.”

“ _No,_ Derek, because you don’t have anything to be sorry for!” Stiles ran his fingers through his hair, fucking up the carefully gelled style. “My feelings are _my_ responsibility, okay? Not yours. And I’ll get over them, eventually, I just— I might need a little time for that. But I value our friendship too much to let my stupid feelings get in the way of—”

Two long strides was enough to carry Derek into Stiles’ space. He took hold of Stiles’ hand and pressed the sparkly pink brass knuckles into it.

Stiles stared down at them. “What…?”

“For Erica,” Derek said. “Garish enough to suit her tastes?”

“And then some.” Stiles turned them over in his palm, thumb tracing the rhinestones and the cartoon eyeliner with something akin to reverence. His eyes, when they met Derek’s, held the same look. “Why?”

“Partly to save you from Erica’s wrath,” Derek said, reveling in the soft huff of laughter it earned him. “And partly because I love you.”

Stiles’ heartbeat took off at a gallop. Still, he shook his head.

“No,” he said. “No, you don’t. You heard what I— And you didn’t—”

Derek took Stiles’ hand in both of his, curling Stiles’ fingers around the trinket and blanketing them with his own. “I heard what I _expected_ to hear. I was already afraid that you might not feel the same way about me that I felt about you, so when I heard you say…what you said, I just assumed…”

A tentative smile pulled at Stiles’ mouth. “Confirmation bias?”

Derek rolled his eyes. “If you want to compare either of our feelings to Bigfoot, then yeah, I guess you could say that.”

Stiles laughed. It was a little on the hysterical side, like he still wasn’t sure if this was real or some big joke, but he didn’t step back this time when Derek pressed forward. A breeze rustled the leaves over their heads, throwing dappled sunlight across their faces, and Stiles eyes were as warm and golden as they had been that first morning, waking up in each other’s arms. It felt so natural for Derek to wrap his arms around Stiles now, to pull him closer, to feel the heat of his body and the hitch of his chest. Stiles’ breath was shaky across Derek’s cheek.

“So this is real?”

In answer, Derek kissed him.

The brass knuckles hit the ground. Neither of them cared. Stiles’ hands came up to grip Derek’s shoulders instead, clinging on like he expected Derek to disappear if he let go, and nothing else mattered.

The moment was broken by the sharp clack of heels and an impatient huff.

“As glad as I am to see you that two morons have worked things out,” Lydia said from the courtyard’s entrance, “we don’t have time for extended make-out sessions. Stiles, you’re going to be late! And fix your bowtie before I fix it for you.”

It was a testament to her force of will that Stiles didn’t hesitate to let go of Derek to do as she bid. His fingers were fumbling with the fabric around his neck before their lips had even parted. Derek batted them out of the way.

“Go on,” he said once the damn thing was properly tied. “Can’t keep the bride waiting.”

Stiles laughed. “God forbid.”

He made it halfway to the building before he remembered his jacket. He made it all the way into the hall before he remembered the brass knuckles. On both return trips, he took the time to drop another kiss on Derek’s lips, like now that he had started, he couldn’t stop. Derek certainly wasn’t going to complain. It was all he could do not to say screw the wedding, throw Stiles over his shoulder, and go find another bed for them to share.

Stiles must have had the same thought because he turned back again when he reached the doorway. He had that smile on his face, soft and bright and real, and he held the gaudy trinket against his chest like it was something precious.

Maybe it was.

“So I’ll see you after the ceremony?” he asked, breathless.

“I’ll save you a dance,” Derek promised. “If Erica doesn’t kill you first for throwing off her airtight schedule.”

With a curse, Stiles disappeared down the hallway. Derek laughed, feeling warm all over and lighter than air, like he might just float right off his feet. He couldn’t help but touch his lips—they were still tingling.

In a few minutes, he would have to join the rest of the guests. There was the wedding to see through, the reception to attend, friends to catch up with. It was going to be an amazing day, for far more reasons than only what had just happened. But first, he pulled out his phone and opened up the text thread with Braeden.

 _[i’m an idiot],_ he sent her. _[you were right. the risk paid off.]_

A moment later, her response came in.

_[that’s my boy]_

**Author's Note:**

> [rebloggable promo on tumblr with moodboard!!!](https://clotpolesonly.tumblr.com/post/637504232445132800/dont-care-where-this-road-goes-178k-sterek)


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